Originals Ride: Hellions Motorcycle Club (Hellions Ride Book 8) (6 page)

“Never been more sure of anything, Blaine. I’m leaving it in good hands.”

California Kid

Tommy and I talked. Until Clive gave us paperwork, and honestly, even after, we would treat things as business as usual. We didn’t save him to push him out of his shop. We did it because it was the right thing to do. Never leave a good man to struggle alone.

The sound of a Harley pulling in not long after we opened the next morning causes Tommy and I both to go straight outside. After everyone came together to clean up the last mess, no way are we risking anything going down like that again.

Hopefully, the boys from Fury MC aren’t stupid enough to come back here. If they are, Tommy and I both have our revolvers ready. The SBI kept the weapons from the other day, but we had more, so we aren’t empty-handed.

Behind the bike rolls in Rhett in his rig. Without shutting it off, Rhett jumps out of the truck and heads over to the man on the Harley. They shake hands, and then Rhett points over to Tommy and me before the guy even dismounts.

We make our way over to see a man with black hair slicked back and a goatee. He’s in a black T-shirt, faded jeans, and boots. Just like Tommy and me, a chain hangs on his side from his belt loop to his back pocket holding his wallet. The chain isn’t a statement like people think. It’s there so that, if our wallet slides up and out of our back pocket while we ride down the highway, we don’t lose it. The man’s saddlebags show wear; the bike obviously has some miles under it. Good to know.

Rhett lifts his head to us. “Blaine, Tommy, this is the California kid, Richard Billings.”

Richard extends his hand for us to shake.

“Met him on the road back in Bama. Told him, if he made his way to Coastal Carolina, this was the best place to get his bike serviced.”

“Thanks, man,” I say to Rhett who often meets people on the road and tells them, if they are ever in the area, to stop here for work. Rarely do we ever see them.

“Need a new rear tire and oil change,” Richard says.

“You affiliated with Fury?” Tommy asks with an edge to his voice.

“Fury MC, as in the gang from Florida?”

“Well, I don’t know. You tell me; how many Fury MC’s are there?” I give back, not liking that he’s avoiding the question.

“Look, man, these fellas had a run-in with some boys from Fury. Can’t be too safe,” Rhett explains to Richard then looks at us. “Richard here is from San Fran. He’s got no affiliation. He rides where the road takes him.” Rhett pauses. “Alone.”

Only then do I extend my hand and shake Richard’s. “Welcome to Haywood’s Landing, Frisco.”

We all laugh as Richard raises his hands in the air, questioning the nickname.

“Richard makes me think of Dick, and the only dick I wanna think about is the one in my pants as I’m in my woman,” I explain.

“Amen, brother.” Tommy backs me up. “Well, Frisco, pull her in bay one, and we’ll get started to get you back on the road.”

“Got a local haul. I’ll be back by this afternoon, guys. Frisco, stay for dinner; Mary Alice is making roast. I hate leftovers, so you’d be doing me a solid by eating. Y’all come, too, if you want. I’m sure Mary Alice would love to have Dia over.” He looks at Tommy with a smirk. “If you’re gonna make a go of things with Marie, then bring her on over, too. You know the girls gotta give their stamp of approval. Better sooner than later, Tommy.”

Two hours later, we have two new tires on and have given Frisco’s bike a solid service. Good thing the man doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, because Tommy had to work on a Bel Air for a regular client, so it left me on the bike.

Taking a break for lunch, we are all sitting on flipped over buckets in the bay area. Tommy lights up while I open my lunch from Dia and take a bite of my sandwich.

“How long ago was the situation with Fury?” Frisco asks, and Tommy takes a deep drag off his smoke.

“What’s it matter? They came. They were handled.”

Frisco raises his hands in surrender. “Nothin’, man. Not tryin’ to upset you, Rocky.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at him.

Frisco smiles with the whitest teeth standing out against the dark hair of his goatee. “Things are obviously rocky with us. Just trying to lighten it up, man.” Frisco looks at me. “Look, I get your reasons not to trust. I’m not with Fury, or any club for that matter. I’ve done a lot of traveling, seen a lot of clubs like Fury. Not all of them are about the bad stuff. Some are just a brotherhood of men takin’ each other’s backs.”

“Really?” Tommy asks in a tone that seems hopeful.

“From what I’ve seen, this won’t be the last you hear of Fury. They’ll be back. You gotta ask yourselves if you’re ready for that.”

“Shit,” I say, putting my sandwich down, having suddenly lost my appetite.

“They’re looking to move stuff through here. They aren’t going to simply ask once and move on. I’ve seen this in plenty of small towns. You’re off the radar, easy to get stuff passed through by car or by boat.”

I didn’t think about any of that. He’s right, though. This probably isn’t the end of Fury MC.

I look at Tommy and see the same thoughts are going through his head.

“Well, Rocky,” I begin, “what the hell are we gonna do to keep our town safe?”

He laughs at my calling him by Frisco’s nickname. “Well, brother, reckon we better have our own thing going on so we are more than a two-man show when they roll back in. Gotta show them ain’t no one coming to Haywood’s Landing to cause mayhem. No, any hell raisin’ going on here is controlled by us.”

The three of us laugh. The situation is daunting, but we have to make light of it after everything that has happened, or we may just drown under the pressure. Together, we will keep Fury and men like them out of our town.

Picking my sandwich back up, I feel okay again. “Yup, we control the chaos.”

Hellions Ride

One week later, Frisco, the California kid, is still in town. He spends his days helping at the shop and having dinner over at Rhett’s before crashing on his couch.

Rocky and I are at the shop when four bikers pull up. The leather vests are all too familiar with the blue Fury flames and patches covering each one of them. Despite different sizes, different rides, and different sayings, each vest—or cut as they call it—is unique.

With a tire iron in my hand, I step in front of the shop. The revolver at my back feels too far away, but I know Frisco and Rocky are inside, armed, and on their way to back me up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, boy,” the first man to climb off his bike says, raising his hands high in the air. “Ain’t here for that kinda trouble, young buck.”

Young buck, huh
? I’m twenty-six years old, and in the last week, thanks to his club, I feel like I have aged well beyond a rational number.

The other three men climb off their motorcycles, all with their hands raised. Good thing, too, because I’m in no mood for round fucking two.

The men approach just as Frisco and Rocky flank me on either side with guns held high. The sound of a diesel engine approaching causes us all to pause.

I fight back a laugh as Rhett comes hauling ass into the parking lot with his big rig. He turns at just the right moment to avoid hitting the bikes but blocking them in. As he locks the brakes and slides to a stop, dust flies around the chrome and leather, settling onto it.

The tension in the air is thick, and I watch the men closely as they see Rhett climb out of his truck with his shotgun in hand.

“Got shit to do, fellas, so you can find your way out of town,” I say to the group of men.

“Just came to talk business. I’ve heard the shop has new owners. Well, we have a proposition for you,” the man tries.

I stand my ground. “Ain’t got time to listen to a damn thing any of you has to say.”

“I think you fail to realize who is in control here,” he starts, and I raise the tire iron to shut him up.

“I think you fail to realize where the hell you are. I’m no young buck. I’m a one shot, one kill, it only takes one round kinda man. You have two seconds to turn your asses around and head back to the shithole you came from before I put each of your names on a bullet and make sure to take you out with that single shot each. This is our town, and we don’t want none of the likes of you around here.”

“Just think about it for a minute, son—”

“I’m not your son,” I growl.

“If we don’t do business through you, we’ll do it with someone else in town. Why don’t you be the one to make the profit?”

“You are a crazy son of a bitch,” Frisco says as the man clearly doesn’t want to give up.

“Take highway 24 on your way out and get back to the interstate or hit highway 58 to 17,” Rhett informs as he tosses his rifle to me, and I catch it right after I drop the tire iron. He doesn’t know about the revolver at my back, and now isn’t the time to tell him. “Either way you go don’t matter; it’s just your time to go.”

The man in the back with a beard down to his belly turns to Rhett, dropping his hands. “Who the hell are you?”

“The man giving you directions on how to get the hell home.”

He moves to stand toe to toe with Rhett. “We ain’t done talkin’ to the young buck yet.”

The man twists as if he’s reaching for something, and Rhett reacts, hitting him with a right hook to the jaw. Instantly, the man is knocked out.

His buddy jumps into Rhett’s space, nailing him with a good one to the face and causing his nose to bleed. Rhett doesn’t hesitate in giving the guy a jab to the gut then an uppercut, making him stumble into his friends.

Rhett then brings his hands up in a boxer’s stance, ready to keep going. Man number two throws his hands up in defeat, and man number one groans, coming to.

“As you can see here,” I say to the largest man who has been in front of me the whole time, “we like how we have things now. Unless you want me to use the two bullets I got in this shotgun—one for you and one for your buddy beside ya—I suggest you get on your way.”

“One round, one man, huh?”

Irritation is reaching the point of becoming anger. “I’d say ask your brothers, but seeing as how they each took one shot and aren’t around anymore to tell ya about it, I reckon actions speak for themselves.”